


I've Got My Spies On You

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Genghis Khan - Miike Snow (Music Video)
Genre: 'oh shit I've been rumbled', M/M, maybe I'm wrong but I think you can read the wife's look at one of, playing the long con, so here's that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 03:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13045344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: Jeffrey Islington knows Mascha long before he knows Sphinx.





	I've Got My Spies On You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chaosmanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosmanor/gifts).



“It’s a long, complicated, fidgety fucking assignment, Jeff,” Mascha says. “How about that for a reason you can’t just dive in? I’ve been working on him for five years and I’m not going to spoil it with a smash-and-grab.”

“Grabbing I think I understand, but what would smashing entail in this case?” Jeffrey Islington inquires serenely. He sips the water the bartender had graciously poured into a martini glass and winks at the waiter.

“Ew,” sighs the voice on the other end of the line.

Islington is calling from a cozy little ski resort in the Swiss Alps. It was bad manners to belly up to the bar with a cell phone in hand, but getting time for this conversation had been tricky.

“Ew? Ew, you say? You can’t say ‘ew.’ That’s your husband you’re talking about. One flesh and sickness and poverty and so on. Someone’s got to think he’s sex on legs and it ought, by rights, in the eyes of God and the archangels, to be his lucky, loving wife.”

“I stand by ‘ew’ in the general, but in specific the ‘ew’ was an ‘ew’ vis-à-vis someone smashing my husband. As to wifely duties, I’m not really worried. Papa is the favorite of the sprogs in any case and someone else already does think he’s sex on legs.”

Islington snorts water. “Who?!”

Mascha lets that hang there for a moment. When she speaks her voice was full of a smile that roils his guts.

“I don’t need help from you,” she says. “Bring me direct orders from the home office or fuck off. Why are you even asking me this?”

“You’re wasted there…”

Across the lobby, the gentleman from Moldova appears with his entourage. Dressed in a heavy black fur and defiantly bare-scalped, the infamous Sphinx slowly removes his black leather gloves as his reptilian blue gaze scans the room. The yellow light of the chalet chandeliers glints off of his awful golden beak, its sinuous organic shape and the filigree of scars gouged into his skin sitting in stark contrast to the Brutalist lines of his mouth and eyes. He is flanked by a duo of bodyguards, each outfitted in black wool coats and the chicest moustaches Islington had seen in years.

The Sphinx finishes his scan of the room, giving Islington’s section of the bar a cursory pass of his attention before moving on. The concierge approaches with a smile and a bow, offering him the key. Straight-faced, the Sphinx nods to acknowledge something the man says and gestures that there is nothing more he required. As the concierge peels off for the check-in desk once more, Sphinx murmurs to his men and leads the way to the elevators.

“You could do so much better,” Islington finishes slowly, turning his head to watch them go.

He touches his tongue to his top lip and feels it moving inside his mouth as he put it away. Surely it was all right to undress a man with your eyes if all you wanted to know was where he had hidden the H-bomb schematics?

“That’s not your call to make,” Mascha snaps on the other end of the line. “Now shove off, I have to pick up the kids.”

“All my love to them.”

“Seriously, Islington. Leave my assignment alone.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of bothering him,” Islington murmurs. Mascha rings off.

* * *

Beyond his desk, the MI6 Holiday Party is barreling on full-tilt. Already lightly soused on irresponsibly free-flowing single-malt Scotch, Jeffrey Islington sits playing with his desk toys and discreetly watching Feed #6 of the house in Moldova through a tiny pane in his browser. The secretaries are drunk, and the R&D guys are playing kissing games, and the director is heading down to fist-fight the head of the RAF in the underground parking garage. It's a great party and no mistaking, but for this Mascha left Moldova? How could she stand it, knowing what she'd left behind?

Sphinx didn’t seem particular unhappy about his beloved wife’s sudden call from her sister in the United States, but he didn’t seem thrilled, either. He seems relaxed, holding a glass of wine red as blood from loose fingers and unbuttoning the second button of his shirt. The kids, Nicoleta and Artiom, have been in bed for almost a half hour, full of a Christmas Eve supper and eagerly anticipating a few presents in the morning.

It is unsettling to see Sphinx like this, sitting in his spotless living room surrounded by soft white string lights wrapped with false green garland making a kind of permanent candlelight. The light twinkles on his golden nose, shushing gently over the lines and bags of his face, his snow-melt scars and long, bejeweled, relaxed fingers. Most bald men take care that their scalps don’t shine, but that doesn’t appear to matter to the Sphinx at all. In fact it suits him, to shine and be deadly -- but in this dim, nest-like twilight, the vulture nakedness of his head seems like that of a swan, all graceful curve and slender neck, fine jaw and high cheekbones.

Islington is unsettled. Sphinx still looks like himself, of course; ferocious, as he always looks, and Islington can remember with embarrassing vibrancy the shape of his mouth twisted in a snarl. But the presence of his children and the soft lights and a glass of wine have turned his jewel-like hardness to reveal another facet: he is a supervillain with a two-bedroom flat, modest furniture, and a collection of mid-range wines.

Sphinx values moderation. Comfort, yes, but not luxury.

For all his cold ambition and predator’s instinct, Sphinx does not indulge himself.

“Shithead!”

Islington clicks hastily away to a spreadsheet and flicks his desk tchotchke into its sad facilimile of celestial motion just in time to see Mascha Diabolis (and to think she mourned her maiden name) dropping a folder onto his keyboard.

“Hello, sweetie,” Islington says. “Had your Christmas punch yet?”

“You foiled the operation!” Mascha snarls. “I swapped the papers before he left! He would’ve given them false information, but because of your bullshit diversion he’s still a respected arms dealer!”

“Whoops.”

As if he hadn’t been reprimanded about that, anyway. Why did she think he was riding a desk during the single three-week period when even supervillains let their hair down? Unfortunate that MI6 wasn’t sufficiently specific about what “disrupt an illegal arms deal” should entail, and all the more unfortunate that Islington himself should be paying the price.

“Stop interfering with my assignment!” she snarls. “He was talking about you afterwards!”

“Really? What’d he say?”

“That for someone who was capable of slipping into a highly-guarded gala you still managed to act like a _prost măgar_.”

“Does that mean ‘handsome devil’ by any chance?”

“‘Stupid jackass.’”

“Not the worst first impression, then. He’s got me pegged.”

“Just. Step. Off.”

“I was shadowing Mikhail Centruroides, I swear. Sphinx just happened to be there. I can’t help that, can I?”

Mascha gives him a skeptical squint. “...why were you on the Centruroides beat?”

“It’s Golden Dawn stuff, I wouldn’t worry about it. Juntas and all that.”

“And what makes you qualified to worry about Greek juntas?”

“I really, really like lamb,” Islington says. “Just like you really like paprika. Listen, Mascha mia, would I still have this job if they’d caught me interfering with another agent’s work?”

Mascha glares a little but eases off. “I know you’ve got a little thing for him…”

“Sure do. He’s my type. Something about Eastern European arms dealers with enough fashion sense to accessorize get me all in a tizzy. Who could resist?”

“Uh-huh.”

Islington licks his lips. “I’m sure you must’ve felt it yourself on your wedding night. Got him all sprawled out in bed and thought to yourself, ‘oh, how I yearn to take him down.’”

She snorts and smiles a little. “All right, all right. Keep it in your pants.”

“Too much?”

“Hauntingly familiar sentiments, is all. But you understand where I’m coming from, don’t you? It’s been a long assignment. If I’m territorial, it’s just because I want to wrap it up and move on.”

“I mean, you’ve had two kids with the guy,” Islington says, “I can see why you’re under some stress.”

“Adopted.”

“Not your kids any the less.”

Mascha snorts again. “Well, we’ll see. I guess it didn’t go well, then, the Centruroides shadow?”

“Oh, not my worst. C+, B-. But all is forgiven. We’re good old friends, Mikhail ‘n’ me. The fishes should’ve picked his bones pretty clean by now.”

“The Alps are landlocked.”

Islington gives her an engaging smile.

Mascha laughs. “Charming boy, you are.”

Feeling just a little bit bad about it, Islington emails Mascha a copy of his target reassignment form the next day and programs her number to “Do Not Answer.”

The race is on.

* * *

Work takes them to the Caymans, Machu Picchu, Tokyo, Venice, Macau. They meet in honeymoon spots, Islington cannot help but notice, although never the ones he’d personally want to go to. Venice is beautiful, of course, but is it a patch on a pretty, isolated B&B in the Lakes District or a cabin in Padurea Domneasca? Not on your life.

Islington gets in the habit of neutralizing Sphinx’s men and pinning Sphinx up against walls in discreet alcoves, saying, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Sphinx. The neighbors will talk.”

Sphinx gets in the habit of grunting with the impact and murmuring in a voice like sun-warmed steel, “Oh, let them,” before tazing him.

What Mascha never mentioned, what the files never recorded, is how much of a flirt Sphinx can be. Austerity and moderation Islington had seen for himself, but to be left dangling over a pit of snakes with an egregiously unsubtle wink or tied to a chair in a makeshift interrogation room while Sphinx adjusts his bowtie and strokes back his hair are hazards he had never seen coming.

Islington measures Sphinx’s attention against that first look in the Alpine resort. Back then Sphinx hadn’t even seen him, but now Sphinx looks for him first, scanning the room for his particular heat signature and settling single-mindedly on him as soon as he’s spotted.

Oh, the pressure of that attention, the weight of the Sphinx’s cutting gaze. It’s worth the black eyes, and the broken nose, and the turned ankle, and the electrocution. He escapes every time, of course, and foils Sphinx’s plan, or sometimes it’s Mascha’s plan he foils and Sphinx slips away unscathed.

Tonight, sipping a syrup and seltzer and watching Feeds #4, #5, and #6, Islington watches Mascha trying to recover ground. She holds Sphinx’s hands and runs her thumbs over his knuckles, her red mouth urging some unheard action in Romanian. Islington squints to see it, knowing he’ll run the tape back over again later and try to read her lips.

Sphinx’s face twitches at her words, muscles around his eyes flinching as he struggles to smile serenely at his wife. He says “yes” and “of course” and “it’s gone on too long” and “you’re right.”

Islington's fingers go numb at the look on Sphinx's face. He doesn’t need to rewind to see that Mascha is telling him that it is high time Agent 11 was put down.

* * *

Days, months later, he gets a call on the home line.

Andrei is putting the little ones to bed while Jeffrey shakes up a nightcap. Andrei likes his passion for mocktails and he likes Andrei’s preoccupation with wine culture. Together they listen to Liszt and read Latin American authors and go to the aquarium with the kids, and the sex they have is scorching hot, still burning with that little edge of conflict and strife, all those forbidden touches.

“Islington-Diabolis residence.”

“You fucked my fucking assignment, Islington!” the voice on the phone hisses.

“How dare you!” Jeffrey Islington-Diabolis gasps. “I did not fuck your fucking assignment, I made love to your fucking assignment! Sometimes we’re a little rough, but the love is always there. How dare you.”

“This isn’t over,” Mascha promises. “I worked too long on this, you suppurating asshole! You are not going to get away with this!”

“No? Well, best of luck, honey, really. I don’t know how you’re going to bring about gruesome retribution, since I’ve been pretty meticulous about MI6-proofing the house, but you’re welcome to give it a go.”

“You didn’t get everything. Watch your back,” Mascha snarls, and slams down the receiver.

Jeffrey hangs up and shakes his head a little. In a few years he’s sure they can all be friends again, but perhaps it’s a little soon to try to sew up the wound.

Didn’t get everything, hmm? Wonder where she’s still got cameras.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise, an old instinct from their fighting days, and Jeffrey smiles as a warm body settles itself against his back, two arms looping around his waist and two hands settling across his belly. Andrei sighs.

“Everybody down for the night?” he asks.

“Mm-hm. They wanted a Camelot story.” Andrei nuzzles just behind his ear, warm gold brushing his skin and letting a delicious thrill run down his back. “I need to sit in when you do the voices. I’m not doing them right. There are complaints.”

Jeffrey chuckles and pours the drinks out. “Did your team finish the soundproofing installation, darling?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Andrei agrees. He kisses Jeffrey’s neck and rests his chin on his shoulder. He gives Islington’s waist a little squeeze. “Car horns at 03:00 shouldn’t be an issue any more.”

“I do appreciate you not having them shot,” Islington quips, voice heavy with sarcasm.

“ _Motănel_ , much as I agree with you, I really can’t have every public nuisance shot. I need those bullets for other projects.”

“Fall in love with a supervillain, they told me. He'll shoot street musicians and traffic violators for you, they told me. Serve you caviar out of a giant panda skull."  
  
"A giant panda? Jeffrey, your standards are too low. Your prior supervillainous lovers accustomed you to too little luxury." Andrei kisses him again. "You deserve at least a black rhinoceros full of caviar."

"Aw, I'd hate that. Thank you, darling." Jeffrey turns and rubs the tip of his nose against his husband's prosthesis. "Listen, the reason I asked about the soundproofing is because I really think I’d like to ride your cock for about 20 to 45 minutes tonight.”

He pecks the tip of the beak and nuzzles closer to his mouth, catching the little wheeze and the look of surprise that breaks across Andrei's face.

“You know how noisy I get, the longer you fuck me,” he murmurs. “Can’t help myself.”

“Exponentially noisier,” Andrei breathes, kissing his lips. His hands begin to traverse Jeffrey’s middle, pulling him proprietarily closer, as if that conceals the way he's gone pink as a poppy. “Minute by minute.”

“Mmhm. Until you make me scream.” Jeffrey flicked his tongue against Andrei’s lips. “Does that sound like a plan to you?”

“Certainly, _dragul meu_.” The look in Andrei’s eyes is pure Sphinx, fierce and hungry and hot. “Although how you’ll stand 45 whole minutes of my most tender ministrations, I cannot begin to imagine.”

He stands it by tying Andrei up and losing himself so completely in his delicious conquest of this man that it doesn't occur to him to try anything special when Andrei comes, gasping, shouting, after 30 dizzying minutes. The plan had been to spot the camera while astride his husband and give Mascha a show, on the chance that she was watching, but he doesn't remember the phone call until after he's uncuffed Andrei and snuggled up against his side, exchanging lazy kisses and low, laughing compliments.

Well, he was meaning to do some housework before class tomorrow anyway. He can give the place another good scrub.


End file.
